


Lies of Omission

by mimsical



Series: the sgrub trauma au [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Family, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship(s), SGRUB, someone please rescue dirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimsical/pseuds/mimsical
Summary: After Sgrub, the only thing Jake knows for certain is that he doesn't know what's real.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i dont hc dirk as an inherently manipulative person and this is a story about ptsd, not abuse
> 
> see end notes for warnings

You don’t feel anything but tired and cold, anymore. Since the game you’ve become useless and young again, this time with no island and no home and no friends. You slink along the dark streets at night and hold down your tears at roughly as needed. 

The old Jake would have been ecstatic to meet a fancy movie producer. When you realize you’re being followed, when the car pulls up, and when you stare inside and find none other than Dave Strider inside, you feel nothing. 

“Jake English?” he asks. 

You nod. 

“You played Sgrub?” 

Nod again. 

“I have some questions for you, if it’s no trouble,” Strider says, as if there isn’t a driver with a gun and a bodyguard in the passenger seat with the sort of sleek outfit that does nothing to hide knife sheaths. “You’ll be compensated for your time.” 

There’s really no risk here. You’ve already been through hell, after all. Even if Strider turns out to be a murderer or a creep it’s no worse. You get in the car next to him. 

“Told you the odds were good,” says the bodyguard. Her voice is even more grating than most troll’s. 

“Well, he hasn’t told us anything yet, so hold your bets,” Strider retorts, lounging. There’s really no other word for it. He exudes the sort of arrogance that comes from money and fame both, with a velvet suit and douchebag sunglasses to match. 

You stare at your knees, and don’t bother to fasten your seatbelt. 

“You want something to drink?” Strider asks. He leans forward and opens a cupboard on the back of the driver’s seat, revealing a selection of tiny bottles. 

“Dave, you asshead, you can’t give a sixteen year old alcohol!” the driver objects. He’s a troll, too. He’d set the gun down in the center console as soon as your door had shut. It’s a pretty standard pistol for sure, but you didn’t get a good enough look and you can’t see it now. You reserve judgment on whether or not he’s an amateur. 

“There’s juice in here!” Strider protests. “I’ve got some soda, too. Jake, how do you feel about… uh…” He nudges some mini-champagnes aside guiltily. “There’s… doctor peps? Fanta?” 

“No, thank you,” you say. The car is really roomy and you’re holding yourself still to try not to squeak against the smooth leather. Suddenly you’re aware of exactly how grimy you are. Unreliable access to clothes, too many sleepless nights near dumpsters.

Strider takes something for himself and slumps back into his seat. 

“Don’t you start drinking, either,” grumbles the driver. 

“Yeah, whatever, Nanny McPhee,” Strider responds. He pops off the cap. 

“I realize I’m not in much of a position to be making requests,” you say, eyeing the bottle sidelong, “but if you’re not going to bump me off I’d rather if you didn’t get totally zozzled.” 

Strider looks at you in mild surprise. “You ever open a modern dictionary?” 

You return your gaze to your hands, scowling this time. Strider abandons his drink in the cup holder. 

 _Come on, Mr. Works With Uranium For Fun, I know you’re smart. Use your brain, figure it out_. 

“Why do you want to know about Sgrub?” you ask, a little too loudly. 

“Got lots of reasons,” Strider says easily. “Curiosity, for one.” 

“Bullshit,” you say. You can almost taste the rushing wind over the abandoned hills in the back of your throat. 

The bodyguard flat out hoots with laughter. “Your poker face isn’t half as good as you think it is, Dave! Even some random kid can see through it.” 

You’re fairly sure Strider rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. The driver yanks hard on the wheel at the next turn and you reflexively stiffen to brace yourself. 

“Where are we going?” you try. 

“A meeting place,” Strider says. “Can’t take you to my apartment, you could bring all sorts of weirdos back if you left. Can’t take you to anywhere people could take a photo of us, because I don’t really want suggestions that I pick up teenage prostitutes slathered across the tabloids. Gotta be somewhere secure.” 

“Right,” you say. “That’s when you’ll ask your questions, I’m guessing.” You try to keep your voice flat like he does, just to be a nuisance. 

“Right you are,” Strider says. “Young whippersnapper.” 

…He’s making fun of you. Not an uncommon experience, but still, irritating. You stare out the window for the rest of the ride. 

The driver and bodyguard hustle you inside an apartment complex. The driver glances up and down the hallway nervously while Strider fishes for a key. The bodyguard troll leans down very close to you and takes a long sniff in the vicinity of your ear. 

“Give him some fucking breathing room, Terezi,” the driver says when he sees your alarmed face. She backs off, to your admitted relief. 

“Got it,” Strider says, and opens the door. 

The inside is pretty empty. Table, chairs, couch and TV. A couple of doors and the entrance to a kitchen. Clearly not a place in common use. 

Strider gestures you to sit. “You sure you don’t want anything? Coffee? Water?” 

“Let’s just get this over with,” you say. 

He nods and sits across from you. The driver, who’s name you still don’t know, sits next to him. Terezi disappears into the kitchen and seems to be banging around in there. 

“This is Karkat,” Strider introduces. “My lawyer over there is Terezi Pyrope, and I’m Dave Strider. Please call me Dave, if you’re comfortable with that.” 

He pauses, so you say, “You know me already.” 

“Yep,” he says. “Jake English, grew up alone on an island for some years after your grandmother’s passing, got scoped out and scooped up for yet another trial of Sgrub, everyone’s worst nightmare, only recently returned to society.” 

Maybe he’s just a fidgeter, but he looks like he wants reassurance. He glances at Karkat several times while he talks. 

“The facilitators of Sgrub are know for taking kids and dumping them in the game without exactly asking permission first,” Strider says. “Karkat, Terezi, and their friends were the first trial of the game. Out of the twelve that went in, only three walked free at the end. I met them a few years ago, because shortly after their session failed, my little brother disappeared.” He runs a hand along the edge of the table, mouth set in a tight line. “He wasn’t the only one to go missing, but he’s the only one who never turned up again. The others’ brains are… completely scrambled. They’ve been reappearing slowly but surely over the past three years.” 

You cut him off. “I never saw another person other than my two teammates for most of the game.” 

“Most?” he prods. 

_Drop your weapons or I’ll cut his throat._

You clench a fist, dig your nails into the meat of your palm below the table. “The end was a little different.” 

Strider nods. “Then maybe you can help. From what we can tell, the other kids who went missing and turned up again talk a lot about being rigged into computers for periods of time, being forced to take on personas, talking to the players through the message boards. And the usual dose of torture and mayhem besides. You see anything like that?” 

You grind your teeth harshly. “Some.” 

He keeps staring at you, expectant. Your feet twitch with the impulse to leap right over his head and out the window, onto the fire escape if there is one, if not then you can climb, down the windowsills, run and run and not look back. 

Talk, English, you tell yourself. “Our team had four players. Three humans and a fourth who said he was a game-constructed player. We also talked to another feature of the game, who said he was responsible for resets.” There. Nice and factual. He’s going to claw through your skull if you don’t escape this conversation. 

“Names?” Karkat presses. 

Names, fuck. “The reset guy. Scratch. Doc Scratch. And.” You can’t make his name form. It rocks back and forth on your tongue. Start behind your teeth, end farther back.  _Come_   _on, Jake, you can do it. I’m not going anywhere, you know that, but we do have a time limit_. “And Dirk.” 

There’s absolute silence in the kitchen. 

_Of course I know about your silly infatuation. It will fade with time, I assure you. Before you accuse me of having no way to know this fact, do keep in mind that I am omniscient._

_Oh, god, yes, okay? I like you ~~that way~~, with ridiculous tildes and everything, since you insisted on pressing the issue! And no, I don’t know how that’s possible when my existence is mostly computerized. It’s very confusing._

_You were terribly easily to manipulate, you know._

_You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore._

Dirk’s hair, white as his cruelest words. His eyes, human and hollow like a chained dog’s, as orange as friendship and devotion. 

Dave Strider made a guttural, agonized, sound, sagging forward against the table. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s my Dirk. My little brother.” 

Karkat unfurled and bent towards him, words pitched so you wouldn’t catch them. Terezi leaned in the doorway, staring towards the scene. Her eyes were flat and red under her glasses. 

You staggered to your feet and rushed past Terezi, threw yourself down on top of the sink and dry heaved because Dirk, because Dirk and Scratch had been the same person all along, and because, because, because — 

The three of you had left, carrying Roxy between you and Jane, left him there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, the spread of blood under him growing wider and wider as you stepped out the door and back into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for this chapter, kind of overall too: ptsd and flashbacks, discussion of alcohol, (past) blood & violence, vomiting, gaslighting & manipulation, kidnapping, mention of torture


End file.
